The Scoundrel and the Debutante (The Cabot Sisters #3)

“It’s lovely,” Miss Cabot said wistfully.

Roan shifted his gaze to her, uncertain what she thought was lovely. With the sun’s angle just so, he could see the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She looked remarkably fresh, considering all that had happened today.

“Don’t you agree?”

Roan reluctantly turned his attention back to the scene before them. A pig rooted about one barnyard among a few hens. He could see a dog lying in the shade of a tree near one cottage, his head up, his snout lifted in Roan’s direction. “Lovely is not the word I would use,” he muttered as he watched the dog, sizing him up. “Wait here,” he said, and carefully moved forward. The dog began to swat his tail as Roan moved closer, then leaped to all fours and sounded his alarm.

One of the cottage doors opened and a man walked out. He moved toward Roan like a well-fed cow lumbering toward the barn. As he neared, Roan could see that he was missing a tooth and an eye on the same side of his face, as if he’d been struck by something spectacular. Roan was curious to know what, but given that he had some important bartering to do; he thought the better of risking any sort of displeasure.

“Aye?” said the man with his one-eyed curiosity, looking past Roan to where Miss Cabot stood, her hands clasped behind her back, nudging a chicken that was pecking around her foot.

“Good day,” Roan said. “Would you perhaps be willing to part with a pair of horses?”

The man looked to the pasture, where his five horses grazed. “Aye?” he said again, and Roan was momentarily confused—did the man misunderstand him, or did he mean for him to continue?

Roan opted for the latter. “And a pair of saddles if you can spare them. I’m to West Lee.”

“Wesleigh? Put yourself on the southbound coach,” the man said, waving in the direction of the village from where they’d just come, and turned as if that settled that.

“Not that West Lee. The north one.”

“What, you mean Weslay?” the man asked, squinting at him. “Then why’d you say Wesleigh?”

Roan took a deep breath. For the life of him, he heard no difference. “I am in need of two horses to carry me north, and you, sir, have seven in your pasture. Are any of them for sale?”

The man said nothing for a long moment as he considered Roan. “Fifteen pound.”

Roan blanched at that outrageous sum. “Fifteen pounds for two old horses?”

“No’ for two, no, sir,” the old man said patiently. “For one.”

“One! That horseflesh,” Roan said, gesturing blindly behind him, “is not worth a farthing!”

“Oh dear. They are certainly worth a farthing. Perhaps you mean a pound?”

It took a feat of monumental control that Roan could turn calmly toward Miss Cabot’s voice, take in the nettles that clung to the bottom of her gown and say, calmly and quietly, “I meant a farthing.” He turned back to the old man. “Will you excuse us for a moment?” And with that, he turned back to Miss Cabot, put his hands on her shoulders, twirled her about and marched her out of the old man’s hearing.

“What in blazes are you doing? At least allow me to negotiate with that old goat.”

“All right,” she said easily. “But a farthing is not very much at all. Even a very old horse would be worth more than that. Shall I show you?” she asked, reaching for her reticule.

He put his hand on hers to stop her. “I know how much a farthing is worth. Do you think I alighted on English soil and set off merrily on my way without thought to the currency or the customs?”

“Well...” She shrugged and averted her gaze as if she thought exactly that. “You did offer a farthing,” she murmured.

“I don’t have time to explain the nuances of negotiation to you now,” he said low. “I am going to step away and bargain for a horse. Not a word from you.”

He turned back and strode to the old man, who had settled against a fence railing, the dog at his feet. “I’ll give you ten pounds for two,” Roan said, and reached into his pocket to withdraw his purse.

“Fifteen pound for one,” the old man countered.

“That is preposterous,” Roan said. “Do you think I mean to breed them? Produce a herd of swaybacked, used-up post horses?”

The old man shrugged.

“Perhaps twenty pounds is more to his liking?”

God help him but Miss Cabot had appeared again, standing at his elbow, smiling prettily at the old man. “It seems rather fair to me,” she said. “Twenty pounds is really quite a lot of money. Our game warden, Mr. Cuniff, sold his cart for twenty pounds and do you know, he sent his youngest off to school? It’s a small fortune, isn’t it?”